


costa del sol

by liamnoel



Category: Oasis (Band)
Genre: Exhibitionism kinda??, Liam is a liar, M/M, Noel is needy, Only a tiny bit of angst, Sibling Incest, Smut, the lads on holiday!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 18:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13709724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamnoel/pseuds/liamnoel
Summary: Envy and lust are both deadly.1997





	costa del sol

**Author's Note:**

> i know this sucks but i already hate myself so i dont care

_Envy and lust are both natural, I know, but  
_ _Envy and lust are both deadly, my love._

 

You are kissing my jaw, slowly, like you need to savor every bit of this to understand just what I am. You're probably right. 

(You're probably right more often than I would ever tell you.)

 _It's only natural,_ you whisper, and I wish there was some way to understand you.

"Mm?"

"You know."

"I don't, really, kid." I pull away to look down at you, pull away from those lips. God, you're a mess, sweating like you're onstage, maybe it's your jumper, foolish in this weather and too big for your still teenage-lanky body, even at twenty-five. I can see your collarbones. I remember how I used to mark them, when that was all I would let myself ruin. They usually didn't show above your shirts, kept me hidden there. When they did show, it was "some girl" who left them, you'd say, and half the time, I'd get hard no matter where we were, cause you'd look me square in the eyes and lick your lips when no one was looking. 

That was all we had back then. Before frantic fucking in the dark, before you were the singer in a band, before everybody knew our names and faces. Before wives and holidays and supermodels and yachts. Back then, it was just our lips and a secret. And of course, it was never enough.

" _Noel_."

You look so... just, so sad - no, that's not the right word. Maybe somewhere 'round melancholy but there's not a word for it, or for most parts of you, really. 

You're not the you I saw today - we'd gone sailing with the others and you'd been so goddamn happy, out in the Spanish sun, your hand reaching down to skip along the surface of the sea, the mist of it hitting me in your wake. Sometimes the water looks like your eyes and sometimes I could drown.

Both of us can barely doggy-paddle so when you lurch at me jokingly like you'll push me over, I think if I started to fall, I'd take your hand and bring you with me.

(I am always in your wake.)

Meg pointed to the front of the boat so that's where I sat, but I would have stared at your stupid fucking face the whole time, even with it all scrunched up 'cos you were staring at the sun. I had to go to the other end, sit behind you, you're such a fucking distraction whenever you're around. And Meg followed but I wasn't even thinking about her.

You were in a yellow shirt with a collar that bunched up around the back of your neck, slightly sweaty in the afternoon heat, and I watched the way it caught the light from my seat behind you. You are cocaine-skinny and it might be my fault. The way your vertebrae push out like they don't want to be inside your skin anymore and sometimes, I know exactly how that feels. 

The color of your shirt makes your skin look pink again, like you're still that Manchester boy without enough sun. When you were sixteen you asked me to buy you an island where we could take drugs until we died, and I told you I hated the ocean and you said _me too_ and I think then you said summat about how tan I'd be, how fit I'd look in my white t-shirt, but I couldn't really hear you because you were already kissing me.

"'s natural, right, he made me this way..." You are so high that I can almost _feel_ how far away you are. You look more breakable when your pupils are huge like this, and my heart beats faster, equal parts arousal and fear, fear that you'll slip away so suddenly.

"He? Who did?"

"I know you don' believe in God. You... don't."

"It doesn't- God made you what way, Liam."

Your head is on my thighs, hair and forehead shining with a bit of sweat, and your lips against my skin where the shirt rides up a bit. 

"I love birds, any way y' shave 'em... bit of hair on her, 's... s'fine... but I don' like hair on birds' _stomachs._ " You're rambling, like you're bound to do on the white. "...bu' I like it here... 's you..." Your mouth's breathing out warm air so close to the skin, like you wanna taste me. 

A curious tongue is there, flat against the trail of hairs, licking up my sweat and replacing it with yours. "Tastes like... tas' like... Noel." The laugh you let out then is soft and breathy and sweet; it makes my chest as warm as your breath. I stroke your hair back and I want to call you _baby_ , and you hum happily and rub your face against my hand eagerly when it brushes against you. I wonder if it's my skin, or maybe just _me_ , that keeps you from drowning.

(If I have enough power over you to pull you up or drag you down just like that.)

I know what you mean now. You've brought it up before, but that was a long time ago; but you still think you were made this way, that you were put on Earth already loving me, and just the thought of it - of how much you let it twist around your head - almost makes me wish we never started all this.

Yet your tongue tells my body otherwise, tells me it's what I need, and you surely can't live without me anymore. So I'll make it okay for you. I'll brush your sweaty hair back and tilt your chin up just so I can look at you, my pretty baby brother, and for tonight - and the next, too, you'll only be _mine_.

Patsy isn't here at all, because she hates Kate. Fine. (No. _Really_. It's fine by me.) I knew you would come with anyway; if not for me then simply because you're in desperate need of a holiday. We both are.

Meg and Kate have gone out and they won't be back till late, late, early- doesn't matter. They make good holiday-mates, pair off nicely and leave us the time alone we so rarely find in London. But now- I'm in your room. All I can smell is you. Well, you and the powder. You're pouring another two generous lines out under the hem of my shorts, tickling my bare inner thigh - of course, lines that only you can reach. Selfish.

"G'is here, Liam."

"Say please." Your lips are red and thicker somehow, beautiful; but your smile is only infuriating.

_You think I don't know how to get around you, little shit?_

"I don't think I will. I think _you'll_ say please because if you pitch a fit right now I'm not just gonna _give_ my dick to you, no. You'll have to work for it now." There's white dust at the edge of your nostrils from your earlier indulgence, and I sweep it up carefully with two fingers and shove them both in your eager mouth, rubbing against your lower gums, the other side of that big pillowy bottom lip. 

"Don't care." Your fingers flex against my crotch, anyway, where the tips just barely rest on the seam. You take the first line smoothly.

"You wanna be all high and stupid when I fuck you? Me too sober and you drooling all over yourself and coming after two minutes? Fuckin' slow down."

"Yeah." You laugh like it's funny. "Do tha' to me, the- what'd you say again? I'm high and you're stupid?" You draw out the first syllable into two, _steee-yewww-pid_. The second line disappears up your nose.

"Oh, fuck off... Liam, pass it, c'mon, you little cunt." I need to catch up with you. It feels pathetic, the way I'm reaching out, grasping at air as you hold it far out of my reach. It hits me suddenly that we must look like children again, playing keep-away - that is, if it weren't for your experienced palm rubbing the inside of my thigh over shorts that are _definitely_ too tight, now.

_Fuck, that's wrong._

(We mixed it all up somewhere.)

"Need it, now, kid." I'm not sure if I mean the coke or your hand, or mouth, or arse, it could be anything. I want all of you. You know that, though, of course you do. You hand over the little bag easily, passing over your credit card and the rolled-up pound note as well; I don't fuck around with razorblades once we're high and horny, 'cos you're a bit of a liability. You've already crushed it all up perfectly in the bag, like always. You've had every step of it down perfectly for eight years. Good little coke addict.

(I should feel guilty for that but I'm too hard right now to care.)

"Platinum card, ooooh. What are you, some kinda _rockstar_?"

You just mouth at my cock through two layers of thin fabric and I can't help but buck my hips up, making sure to keep my hands steady all the way. I get my first bump up the left nostril.

"Or did somebody _else_ help your little arse get famous?"

The amount you're slobbering all over my goddamn designer shorts would be fucking disgusting if we were post-orgasm and sober, probably. But right now it's heaven. I pull your shiny sunkissed hair, growing out already, and you whine, so loudly. It's a sweet, melodic noise whenever you do. You are my singer, after all.

We can be as loud as we want here, so I'm gonna have you screaming.

Another overlarge bump and a dip of the pinky for my gums. Seal the baggy, drop all the supplies on the bedside, all done. You lick the leftover white dust from my bare thigh. Your tongue feels like some sort of unidentified object but that's all of you, innit?

"Yeah, that's right. Good boy." You make a sweet humming noise and rub your cheek against my lower belly again. It's too fucking hot in here; I fumble the polo over my head and get your jumper off while I'm at it. Your pretty pink nipples are hard - inexplicably. Maybe from the rough fabric I've just taken off you. I like the idea of it. Quite a bit, actually; your chest getting just barely chafed by your jumper, _constantly_ , since you put it on an hour ago, keeping your nipples hard no matter how hot your body became. Standing up, just _begging_ to be sucked.

Maybe that's why you're such a fucked-out, dazed mess right now, then. How you get yourself all worked up without any effort. Seems like you got it all figured out.

I don't know how long I've been so engrossed in your chest but I'm staring. Coked-senseless-Liam doesn't seem to mind and you let me slip my tongue around each one, pull a bit with my teeth, but not too much. That comes later. I always like sucking on them while I'm inside you - specifically once you're near the end and gasping for it, almost incomprehensible, and you just want me to bite down _harder._

I've drawn blood before; every single time I do it, it makes you come without missing a beat, and you clench so strong, so perfect, can always make yourself so tight again for me.

I'm tempted to bite you already. But there's more to focus on in the moment, namely, your hand reaching down beneath both layers of my shorts. I heave a sigh of relief but all you do is adjust me in my pants, pulling my cock down the left leg of the shorts, and my balls with it, pressed snug between fabric and skin.

You little _nightmare_ of a tease.

"Fuck you."

You stare up at me, big dilated kitten eyes, still so young - totally unfazed. "Y'wanna know what I'm 'boutta do to you, Noely G." It's not even a question. You state it so flatly and your words slur a little and it's, well. The only word that comes to my mind is _cute_. Fuck that, though. It's not a word I use much at all. You turn me into someone else sometimes.

"Tell me."

You're down there now, leaning over me and rubbing your filthy thick fingers all over my thighs; and all you have to do is shift up the leg of my shorts a bit before the head of my cock is just barely peeking out, oozing generously onto the hem of the fabric and down the inside of my thigh, making me squirm a bit. It's embarrassing but _fuck_ does it feel good.

"I bet you can guess now."

"Liam, _fuck._ "

This should be weird, shouldn't it? We've certainly never done it like this. Who knows what made you want to. But your soft tongue laves at my cock, held steady by the fabric; you drag your hand over the rest of it so lazily, like you wouldn't mind doing this all fucking night till the sun comes back up.

God, am I gonna to fill you up tonight. You won't be able to taste anything else for _days_ once I'm done with you.

**※※※**

It's warmer here than back home, of course. I tend to favor jeans even in the summer but if there's any time to break out the cutoffs it's now.

Besides. You like it when I wear 'em, don't you. 

Reminds you of the 80s, I can tell, watching football on the sofa with me. I swear you had a crush on David White when you were still in school, I saw the way you blushed just _barely_ if there was a close-up shot of him.

Not that I don't get the whole shorts thing. Fucking love you in shorts, too. You had enough pairs from playing football to tease me over and over for days when we were younger, going 'round the house showing your pale, pretty thighs off, so casual when you'd lay on your stomach – on _my_ bed – no shirt on. Sometimes you'd be at my _flat,_ even. With or without Louise there. Watching telly on the sofa with your legs spread open wide, fucking _daring_ me to get hard for you. Or flipping a fucking grilled cheese like it was no big deal, like you weren't wearing one of my Inspirals shirts, size XL, over your white and blue City shorts which were nearly covered by the shirt. And then a pair of white socks with blue stripes slipping down your shins, but still they almost touched your scraped-up, bony knees. Pin-up boy.

No fucking wonder I gave in to you.

You love the shorts on me, but you love these smallish t-shirts, too, I know you do. One night five years ago you said _It makes you look like you have muscles!_ and I told you _Go shag a footballer if you want muscles_ and you told me how you already had, back when you valeted. For... United players. 

_Only my mouth, right._

_Oh, don't take the piss, you cunt._

_I did. I did._

We’d both known damn well you were telling lies. I’d decided to go with it anyway. Just to see what you’d come up with.

_Who was it? That cunt, what's 'is name... Robson?_

_No._

_Alright... McClair._

_No._  

… _Hughes. Gotta be._

Figures you'd go for the star player.

_I wore my City kit while I did it._

_You’re a stupid fucking liar._ I couldn’t help but grin, though. I was starting to wish it were true.

(I’d found myself imagining you on your knees with the word _brother_ emblazoned across your chest.)

_You think I'm dirty._

I never _really_ did, you know. Even though in some bizarre fantasy of yours, you’d sucked off Man United's fucking top scorer. In your baggy sky-blue City kit - _mine_ , actually.

I know what really happened, ‘course I do, we all teased you about it for ages. It was your weird shady fucker of a boss who thought it'd be funny to write out a love note instead of an invoice, and you, you sweet temptation, you had walked right up there and handed it to him. I'm sure you looked just as bored and uncaring as ever even as he laughed at the words those cunts put down, 'I think I love you, I'm going to make you mine.' _'e showed it to me, though, right away, he did. Good bloke._

And you had blushed and said you didn't feel that way.

(Seventeen, and already the world was against you. We both know it always will be.)

Two years later you whispered in my ear _I never fuckin’ did anythin’ with Hughes, y’know. Was joking_. (As if I didn’t already know that. Who knows why you’d chosen then to admit it, as if it even needed saying.) Definitely Maybe had been charting for ten weeks when United beat City 5-0, and after their first goal I told you to bite down on your tongue, hard, every time they scored. Of course you did it, because you love a challenge – and you _love_ blood – and you look so pretty in red; and _Let's not forget you've had a Red in your mouth before, eh?_ Terrible pun, but I couldn’t fucking help myself. You were all scowls that day.

Once they'd got that last goal you'd huffed and spit a teaspoon of Liam blood onto the hotel carpet and glared petulantly, the way only you can, while you dropped to the floor in front of me and pulled my knees apart.

(You were still new to London, then. Came straight to the same hotel as me. You had been so angry when I moved down, but I always knew you'd follow me, and quickly. This city suits you, still does; the busy white noise of millions, somewhere you can get lost, outside wandering, or, more likely, inside your own head.)

The match was over; United destroyed City while you destroyed me.

**※※※**

"Who the fuck is this?"

You'd called me from your room at eleven-thirty, woken me from some sort of late-night kip. Our sleep schedules are hopelessly fucked again thanks to the Charlie.

 _Is Meg out?_ She was. _Come 'ere._ Why should I? _Wanna try something new. Jus' c'mon, man. Waitin' for you._ You hung up on me and I grumbled and toweled my hair into something more presentable, didn't even bother to button my shirt up all the way, your room's certainly not far.

But there's a girl in here with you.

"This is- you said Eve, yeah?" She nods. She's pretty. Blonde. Like our wives. But not my type. I'd had someone else in mind when I walked into the room. I'm glad for it, but it's still kind of humiliating how my cock had gotten _less_ excited when I saw someone other than my brother lying on the bed.

"So you want me to watch while you fuck some fan, then? You're mental."

"No, don't want you to watch. Want you to _help_ me fuck her."

Christ. "You that bad at it? Need my help?"

"Shu’ up. She wants both of us, right, she told me."

"Cunt, nobody wants to fuck two brothers. I'm going back."

Despite this, I make no move to leave.

You and your companion both giggle. Your eyes are huge, both clearly high off your arses already. "Well, _she_ does. Why d'you think I called you here?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to stay hard when my brother's here with his dick out?"

You narrow your eyes at me like a predator. "Oh, I think that's _how_ you'll stay hard."

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. "Liam, what the _fuck_ -" You dig your teeth into your bottom lip and groan as your bird takes your cock out where it's trying to split the seam of your shorts. It's dripping generously and I'm near drooling with how bad I want it in my mouth. She stares me in the eyes while she does and I force myself to glance away. "This is- you're fucking joking."

I can hear her slurping up your precum. _Fucking bitch, that belongs to me._ "I saw you, y'know." She's got a thick accent – Scottish. "Last year, at Loch Lomond. When you kissed?"

"Oh, of _course._ " This is too fucking rich. "Where the fuck did you find her?"

You smile placidly at me while your hand guides her head down, taking you in. I watch it al out of the corner of my eye. "Does it matter? Get on the bed, you're gonna fuck her."

"Don't fucking tell me what to do."

"She'll let you in her arse, y'know, told 'er you like it that way an' she said she does, too-"

"You've lost your mind."

"What, y'wanna fuck _me_ instead? Bet she'd love to see that, too, wouldn't you, love... take your pick, then, Chief."

" _Mental_." A normal man would've run for the hills by now. Instead I take a seat on the edge of the king-size bed.

You love it. "That's a good boy."

"I'm not touching either of you, y'know."

"Suit yourself. We'll try an' give you a good show."

Eve works for nine minutes, fingering herself to completion under her sundress and then swallowing your load. You don't take your eyes off me the whole time. You gasp through parted lips and flutter your lashes and I think you look seventeen.

"You're good at that." You're a filthy sight now, your own cum lingering behind on your lips after you eat it out of her mouth. You do that a lot, love to share it. With me, that is. "Mmm… tastes sweet." You smile at me and don't lick it away. "Want a taste, Noely?"

"Fucking dream on." _God, yes, I do._

The girl glances at my lap, then; blushes and grins and turns to whisper something to you. You snicker quietly. "Yeah, he's always got a third leg when I'm around. S'why his trousers look so fuckin' tight."

I could throttle you. "You're a cunt."

"I think our Noel needs some attention, now... thanks, though, love. Was fuckin’ top." Charming.

Hopefully this one doesn't sell her story to the press.

I knock you back against the door the second you've shown her out. You'll get a bump on your head and I pray it gives you some brain damage too.

"Jealous, aren't we."

"You're- you’re fuckin’ miserable." I suck the last bits of semen off your open lips. God, it really _is_ sweet. Figures, though, seeing as you've been eating practically nothing but pineapple and coconut and mango for days.

" _Jealous._ You wanted to push her over and get me down your own throat, didn't you."

"Fucking 'course I did."

"Good thing I got another round in me, then." Your teasing fingers drag down my zipper and slip inside.

I let my teeth break the soft skin below your left ear. You growl indignantly but it turns to moaning when I feed you some of your own blood. Under the Spanish moon we might as well be vampires and I'd be content to drink up most of the fluid in your body, an illicit mix of blood, sweat, saliva, tears and cum. A Liam Gallagher cocktail.

Pink-tinged spit drips from your mouth and you loll your head back, laughing low like the high little slag you are.

"Suck me off, Noel."

"Shh, I'm gonna."

"…don't swallow, though, yeah? I wanna taste it again."

"You're a dirty cumwhore."

"Only for you."

"Mm. Better be."

**※※※**

Today is the second-to-last day here. Meg had said _Oh, Noel, I’ve been out so much! Let’s spend the night together_ and it makes me a fucking cunt how much I’d wanted to turn that down, but obviously I can’t. But first, she’s gone out to get her manicure touched up so here we are, making use of the stolen moments before they slip away entirely. I feel melancholy and I think I belong in some French romance film, the way my head is filled with sappy prose. _I'm afraid this is the last of our time together, my love._

That makes you the heroine, then. Easily. You're laid naked on the unmade bed, strewn among cigarette ash and crumpled-up bits of paper, spread out like it's the Garden of Eden; you wouldn't look out of place with a cluster of grapes dangling above your mouth. I don't usually let myself admire your body so openly unless we're fucking, but I'm not sober, or drunk or on the coke, now – just stoned. I don't usually get the luxury of unhurried relaxation. So I let myself stare greedily.

You're really in fucking fantastic shape lately, despite your rampant chemical (ab)use. Your stomach holds only the slightest bit of fat, your legs and arms slim and soft; tan from all the sun, the psoriasis miraculously hiding away. Hair trimmed and neat, face shaven. Your mouth is the same flushed pink as your nipples, blotches of technicolor against white English skin.

And your cock. It's soft right now – I admit, it's not often I'm admiring it like this – but nestled against your inner thigh it makes you look like Michelangelo's fucking David or something. Cast from marble. 

If you were really a statue you wouldn't look so perfect, though. You'd've burst free from the stone before they even finished chiseling out your nose. Too much energy for any sculpture.  

You turn me into a fucking poof too much, more every day. Maybe it's why I feel the need to shield myself, my feelings, from you increasingly. Before you break me from the marble, too.

I slip absentminded fingers through your hair in my lap and wish I could call you _sweetheart_.

Twelve minutes later, though, the pleasant silence is long broken. You let me drape myself over top of you, our skin getting sweaty, cocks dragging against one another.

That's when your stupid fingers start poking around where they're not used to going.

"The fuck d'you think you're doing?"

"Why's it only you that gets to do the fucking, huh? What's it been, eight fucking years, and you _still_ never let me get inside you."

"Yeah. 'n I'm not gonna. So forget it."

"But _why_."

"'Cos I'm older than you." I wish you'd just drop it.

"That's not how it fuckin' works, cunt, you know that. 'sides, you used to let fuckin' _any_ one-"

"Shut the fuck up. Don't you like me fuckin' you?" I flip us over abruptly so your hand can't reach me there. You settle yourself with straddling me, lightly dragging your nails down my chest.

You groan. Like I'm just not getting it. "' _Course_ I like it, s'not _about_ that! It's not fair, though. 'cos I know you like it that way. Don't lie. Why can't y'just let me make you feel good? Think I know what the fuck I'm doin' by now. Don't you ever get _bored_?"

The more I think about it, unless for the control, there's not one fucking good reason I never let you do me like that. It's been years and years but I really _did_ used to like it, back in the day. And I wouldn't tell you so, but I still get myself off with my fingers sometimes, in my more desperate moments.

And, well. Naturally, I'd fantasized about you inside me. Quite a few times.

 _Still_ not gonna let you do it, though. You'll get a big head, too damn quick, and here in the sheets is the only place I even come close to controlling you. Not giving that up. Not a chance.

"You can beg all you want, Liam, but m'not gonna let you."

You give up for a bit, leaning down to kiss and lick at my jaw. Feels nice. But you can only shut up for so long, of course.

“Well. What about… jus’ my fingers?”

_Hmm._

“You really want it, don’t you?”

“Noel… fuck, y’don’t know how much I think about it…”

This’s suddenly got quite a bit more interesting. “Yeah? Tell me.” Maybe I’ll give you what you want, after all.

“Fuck…” You plant your hands and slide your hips back and forth along mine, dick leaking all over the goddamn place. “I’d get in there so deep…”

“Mm…”

“Hit your spot jus’ right. Make you scream my name. Hold you down an’ make you all oversensitive…”

“Jesus, Liam.”

“Milk you fuckin’ dry.”

I don’t quite mean to do it, but I shift my hips up just a bit. You notice immediately, smirking.

“Looks like _some_ body wants it.”

“…Just get on with it.”

Your face lights up like I’d just agreed to marry you or summat. _Might as well have done._

“Look.” You hold your right hand up to my face. “Y’always make fun of my fingers, right. Well, best prepare, love.”

They’re thick. _Really_ thick. Sausage fingers, that’s what everybody calls ‘em. I gulp in anticipation.

“Gonna stretch you so nice.”

“I bet.” Jesus, I can feel my hole clenching in anticipation.

“How many d’you think you can take?” You drum those fingers along my collarbone, pursing your lips and looking up at the ceiling as if you’re deep in thought. “I think we’ll try for four.”

“ _Liam._ ”

“‘m serious.”

I inspect your fingers further, now. They seem to be even thicker than they were moments ago. “…dunno if I can take four, kid.”

“Well, you’re _gonna._ ”

(I know you well enough to know you’re right. I know _myself_ well enough.)

Your fingers are back down there, somehow wet with lube, now, and I don’t stop you. You start with two. Fuck, you know me so well.

I will only last an embarrassing six and a half minutes. All of it is occupied with filthy words and your big fingers pumping in and out of me and it short-circuits my brain.

“So tight. Gonna fuck you someday.”

“You bitch.”

“Noel.”

“Better enjoy this. Never gonna happen again.”

“Oh, shut it. You’ll be beggin’ for it next fuckin’ month.”

(I won’t, actually, because in a few weeks we’ll be back on tour, and that’s _my_ fucking realm. You and I both know I call the shots because we’re basically on the fucking clock, then. This is a holiday. This might as well be a lucid dream. And it’ll be a long tour; you don’t hold up a reputation as the biggest band in the world if you don’t put your whole life into it.)

You shove your fingers in deeper and as they hit my spot ceaselessly I let you have just a hint of it – what it would be like for you to fuck me, for once – and clutch my arms around your neck while I moan in your ear.

Maybe I’m submissive here, sure; but you come on my stomach twenty seconds after I do, and I haven’t even laid a fucking finger on you.

Because I fucking _own_ you.

**※※※**

We'll be on a plane home so soon.

I’d thought we wouldn’t have time today; would be busy packing and all for the early afternoon flight but forty minutes before we’re due to leave for the airport, the phone rings in my room. It’s my wife who answers it.

“Liam? What’s wrong?”

My head whips around, then. I fucking hate the two of you talking already – something about your two regular partners exchanging pleasantries is enough to make a man nervous for weeks. But from the tone of Meg’s voice, you must be pretty frantic.

“Look, slow down- I’ll send him over, alright?”

_What?_

She hangs up the phone. She’s rolling her eyes but tells me anyway, “Your _brother_ wants you.”

(Shit, she doesn’t know what her words imply.)

“What’s his fucking problem?”

“He said he can’t find his wallet. Insists you had it last, that you used it to get drinks last night.”

It’s all fucking made-up. I already know what you’ve got up your sleeve. Fucking crafty bastard.

“…that fucking idiot. I gave it him back already. He can’t find it?”

She nods, grimacing. “Wants you to help him look for it. How fucking old is he, again?”

I don’t answer her. I’m out the door.

“God, it’s only been a minute and a half, look how _eager_ you are.” I don’t answer you, either. You drag me inside your room, holding a fucking bottle of lube already, and these are the last words that are spoken rather than moaned, groaned, gasped; there’s not enough fucking time. I’m determined to make you come in the time it takes someone to find a wallet.

(Yours is perched right on your nightstand and it makes me grin while I wrestle you facedown over the edge of the bed.)

I love fucking you with clothes on. Lucky it’s what we _have_ to do, sometimes, when we only have time for a quickie. Love to drag your trousers down over your waiting arse, push my palm up your sweaty back under the shirt, and all I have to do to myself is undo the button and zip, pull it out, fumble open the cap of the lube bottle and shove my cock right in.

You’re making a noise that’s unidentifiable but the closest word I can find for it is _wailing_ , while I get down to it with no preamble, thrusting at a steady, rough pace. Usually our trysts are few and far between, found less and less as we’ve gotten more famous, but being on this holiday without your wife has meant _daily_ fucks and as such, you’re a bit needy, stretching out real easy.

“Gimme _more…_ ”

“Fucking how? ‘m in you as deep as I can go…”

“…yer fingers…”

Oh, you goddamn slag.

You asked for it, though. I push in balls-deep and hold in there for a moment while you whimper, getting two fingers lubed up and then carefully working in the index. Next to my dick.

“ _Noel…_ ”

“Fuck yes. Need me so bad, don’t you.”

“Ohhh, move…”

I pull the finger in and out at the same pace as my cock, and once you’re biting a pillow to muffle your fucking screams I work the middle one in, as well. God, yes. You’re stretched _so_ wide, my fuckin’ angel; in moments like this I find myself thinking you were born to take me inside you, to let me fuck you up so nice, which is disgusting and wrong but I don’t believe in God and there is no Heaven and all I know is the life I live and here, now, it’s goddamn true.

“Perfect little bitch. _Take_ it.” I can feel how strained your hole is, it would likely be impossible to get another one in, and that kind of stretch is exactly what you deserve and also what you fucking _want_ right now. Because you won’t say it but you know you’re gonna have to go some unbearable amount of time without me.

“ _There, yes, yes, yes, fuck-_ ”

I push in as far as I can fucking go while I thrust in you one last time and I must’ve hit your prostate real nice cause you clench up so tight, then, that I have to pull my fingers out, they just won’t fit anymore. You push yourself back against me and I press my whole body over you while we both let go.

You get the fancy duvet all dirty, but not as dirty as I get you.

A flash of pride shoots through me, like an aftershock of my orgasm, as I pull out and take in the sight of you collapsed over the edge of the bed, panting into the mattress; your trousers down, and a little stream of cum dripping onto the carpet from your well-fucked hole. _Fucking perfect._

“Think I found your wallet.”

You chuckle against the bed. “Gee, thanks.”

“Anytime.”

The next time I see you, you’re licking your lips while you pass me in the aisle of the plane. I know well enough by now not to sit next to you on a flight. Part of me pities the poor fucker who has to listen to you complain about how uncomfortable the seat is, but most of me just feels smug.

**※※※**

“Hello?”

“Yeah, hi.”

“What d’you want, Liam?”

“Oh, I can’t just call my fuckin’ brother?”

“You never call unless you want something.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“Look, Meg’s parents are here and the food’s about ready. Spit it out or I’m hanging up on you.”

There’s eight seconds of silence and then you sigh. “Jus’… miss you.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Fucking cunt, I just-”

“Tour starts on the eighth. I’ll see you then. Might as well save your voice.”

“ _Noel_.”

“’s that it, then?” I twirl the cord around my finger and wish I could feel your breath against my skin instead of just hearing it.

“…love you.” You’re whispering and my throat hurts.

I don’t say anything.

“You there? I love-”

“They’re- they’re calling me back in, I gotta go.” It’s a lie, of course. Which you know. Don’t know why I bother anymore.

“Fuck you.”

“Great. I’ll see you at Heathrow, then.”

I intend to be the one to end the call but I hear your end cut out first. Feels a bit unsatisfying. Like an itch I can’t scratch.

I sit at the table with my in-laws, feeling more for you than I could ever tell you. Feeling all seven deadly sins. Mostly envy. And lust. And under the tablecloth, I swear I feel the ghost of your hand on my leg, teasing me; as if we’re back in Burnage, not millionaires, just two mixed-up boys, fucked in the head, so gone on each other that everything else fades out when we’re together.

The first night of the tour, we play to 8,700; but despite it all, the only thing I see is _you_.

**Author's Note:**

> *sees a single picture of noel and liam on a boat in spain in 1997*  
> *writes 7000 words of bad smut*


End file.
